The Poet's Guide to Misguided Poetic Irony
by L-lamer
Summary: Of poetry and silent friendship; prose and the social construct of race. The story of a chubby boy who's in way over his head in life and takes refuge in the local poetry club where his people congregate to preach their own stories. Of a child who can't remove the wry look in his eyes after growing beneath weeds germinated by those who created the racially elitist system.


**Hey, Guys- ****Certainly has been a while** . I wrote this piece ages ago, man and I hope that you all may enjoy this piece. Honestly, I always end up writing in second person for kh fanfics- its weird but w/e.

The concept of poetry has always struck me as an outlet for people who have no other way to communicate to the outside without explicit censoring. Additionally, I wanted to cover the issues of white passing characters and strange internalised bias.

There really isn't any much to say- maybe a warning for a slight race bend though my headcanon for these side characters remain the same in my canon writing.

* * *

The first time he shuffles into your shaded abode, you supress a shiver and poignantly ignore the way a deadly silence settles upon the room and the way he shrinks into himself. He's pale and bony and drowns in his hood as the chatter of your friends slot back into the gap of silence. You avert your stare as a collective offense is taken by the white kid's presence in your home which, really, is a dodgy little café residing on the streets where the coloured kids roam in the shadows to hide from unforgiving eyes. Usually you'd greet the patron and attempt to bridge the new and the well acquainted but your find that you can't possibly stretch into a bridge between such conflicting waters. Watching him fall prey to his nervous ticks, you pretend for a moment that he is not discarded like the skeleton he is.

Even as you shuffle to leave, affectionate words conveyed through pats and hasty hugs, your mind omits the fact that the fellow is nowhere to be seen for in the room, he is an ill-fitting puzzle piece belonging to a different board. It's easy to forget, you chant as you turn a blind eye.

This white boy- there is something afoot about the way he hides from the stares despite the refuge that he's taken. You concede- the people here were never were never the white picket fences of society. You look at brash Rai who fights against a system built against any sort of force; notice the snappy mechanic whose daughter was killed by 'accident'; lock eyes with your best friend whose been on the fence between Latino and white before you stare at your own face, reflected in the panels of the café's window: your dark skin and your natural thick clumps of hair and the wry look you never can erase from your eyes after witnessing a lifetime of systemised struggle.

The boy appears a second time and third time; he returns over and over, despite the glares he is spared and his repelling presence. He just doesn't fit, for you are people of poetry: armed with prose and metaphors against a world carrying a barrage of weapons poised at your heads. You all scream and yell and shout- only for the bullets- clear and resounding, to block out your noise. And him? He looks like a scruffy kid whose strength resides far from the trenches of literature and lines.

He looks lost and emancipated and after his tenth visit, you muster up the strength to carefully approach him, frowning when he leaps away from your shadow. You offer him a cup of coffee you ordered yourself after realising that he never bothered to eat or drink, only to listen to the drone of your society's poetry.  
His baby blue eyes stare at you with caution, then confusion when your pudgy smile convinces him that you're not out to get him.  
"Drink it." You say softly, and he spares you a paper thin smile and nods before taking the cup and drinks. To you, it's as good as thanks.

You begin talking to him after that. At first, it's a simple nod, then a hello and soon enough, you find yourself complaining about Hayner- the idiot- who'd gotten you suspended for supposed vandalism, which really, if your honest, wasn't even your fault (the damn basketball was crappy anyway and the window was broken for AGES). He'd chuckled at that and the smile you elicited was worth the embarrassment.

Finally, after buying him twenty five coffees, he reaches into his uncharacteristically baggy hoodie and pulls out a humble parcel. You carefully pick it up from his trembling hands, scared that your touch with break him.  
"Thanks" you smile when you find a batch of misshapen cookies in the packet.

He never really talks- just nods and occasionally smiles in a mechanic sort of way which sent pain spiking in your chest. Never, not once, has he uttered a sentence or a syllable… or his name. You can't bring yourself to be mad, though because the poor kid looks like he's ready to flee at the drop of a pin. Your kindness is really the least you can spare.

A month passes and still, you can't even bring yourself to be furious when he returns with a limp and an array of bruises ill-concealed by a dirty jacket. When you'd moved to ask, he'd shook his head and left as you willed for the guilt to fade away.

It's winter when the humble white boy stuns you to silence when you realise that things truly aren't black and white. He quietly crawls to the stage and stands: his golden strands are stained brown at the roots, like the twirling arms of an elderly tree branch. His pale skin is burned into an olive hue as he stands in his dirty black hoody.  
"I," his voice is deep and accented "I dream of peroxide and bleach." You remain silent when he stalls at the sound of r and frown when he swallows his words.

You finally understand as he continues.

"I am condemned by the whites and pushed by my own. I'm scared to speak my own language in the streets because I've seen my brothers and sisters shot down and labelled as collateral damage. I've had a little sister who was a stillborn angel. I sometimes hear a small feet sweep upon our mouldy carpets. She had the most beautiful blue eyes. I don't know why I'm here; why you think I'm white- why I'm condemned by one and ignored by the other. I think… I think that race runs deeper than the cracks in the dirt here where my mother and father have fallen to racial accusations: where I'm all that's left. The white boy who's anything but." The crackle of the fallen microphone is like thunder as he walks away.

He brushes past you and spares a weary smile, worn down from every unspoken tragedy of his life.  
"Thanks, Pence."

You turn to speak but he's already out the door.


End file.
